Please excuse the blatant bragging about how awesome my child is in the post, but it is what it is.

Truck has always been my most affectionate child, from birth, and that's saying something given that my children usually require to be peeled off my legs in order for me to perform mundane household chores. Truck would be perfectly satisfied to sit in my lap all day and read, watch television, sleep, and even eat if allowed. I don't offer lap time nearly as much as he would like because there are other people in the house whose needs must also be met.

So lately, Truck has become more creative in the ways he ensures he will get his Mommy time.

He often invites me to come sit with him, and if the initial offer doesn't work, he'll look up at me, bat his long eyelashes, and plead, "Pweeeeze?" If that still doesn't work (and I admit I sometimes withhold just long enough to get to this point), he will slip his little hand into mine and exclaim, "Love you!!!" although it comes out more like "Yuh-you!"

It absolutely melts my heart, and I, of course, simply abandon whatever I am doing to go cuddle on the couch, where it gets even better. Sometimes he will sit on my lap, facing me, and position my arms around him. Other times, he wants to hold me, so he will crawl behind me, pull me back so that I am laying against him, and then he'll put his arms around me. I'm always worried about crushing him, but whenever I try to lean away from him, he emphatically pulls me back.

I don't take these things for granted, but I am used to them. However, Truck recently surprised me, and it was a moment too precious to not record.

I had just returned from a two day retreat, and Truck was understandably but especially attached to me. He had chosen to wait in the bathroom while I was showering, singing and chatting, and I think just generally happy that Mommy was home. As I dressed and dryed my hair, he left the room, returning a few moments later with a dress-up crown made with ribbons and flowers. He held it up, and said, "Crown?"

"Yes, baby, that's a crown," I answered, wondering how long it would take for him to put it on. He does have three older sisters and is well-versed in the art of dress-up.

"Crown?" he repeated, stretching his arm up. I then realized he was wanting me to wear it, so I knelt down and let him position the crown on my head.

Just when I though the moment could not get any sweeter, he stood back, smiling widely with satisfaction, and declared, "Princess Mommy."

Mercy.

One of my very favorite things about church is corporate praise and worship. There is just something about hearing the voices of my brothers and sisters in Christ, united with my own, lifting our sacrifice of praise to our God and King. There are no words to explain the peace and beauty that overwhelms my soul when I feel Him inhabit those praises, and His Spirit fills the room. Times seems to stand still; I feel whole, and I want to stay wrapped in His love, forever.

Yesterday morning I was scheduled to work in our church nursery. I absolutely adore this sweet time that I get to spend with God's latest creations. I get to love on them, snuggle, and bask in new baby smell. It doesn't get much better than this.

However, it does mean I miss out on church that day. It's really not too big of a deal because I can listen to the sermon online, and I wouldn't trade my time with those precious babies so that their parents can participate in our service, but there is no reclaiming that lost time of praise and worship.

Or is there?

After church, I was running around completing various errands that I had procrastinated for several days. I was in and out of my car for the better part of three hours. The second time I got in my car, I noticed a pattern: as soon as the car started, I would hear the last few notes of a song, and the next song would be one of my favorite songs of worship, followed by another and another, for as long as I was in the car.

I was singing my heart out and enjoying some priceless fellowship with my Lord. He filled my heart until it overflowed with His love, and joy spilled out of my eyes in tears.

About halfway through my errands, it occurred to me that this same phenomena happens every time I miss church while serving the Lord. More tears filled my eyes as I realized this little act of love that means so very much to me.

I know He loves me, but Oh! How He loves me!

He's is truly the ultimate parent. I know that I can always count on Him to meet my needs. While I don't take it for granted, it is an expectation, much like our children expect us to meet their needs. For example, I was recently told by my dentist that I would need braces to save my teeth. Insurance would not cover a penny of it, and it's A LOT of money. Before I could even take my prayer request to my Bible study group, the money fell in our laps. I was so grateful, but at the same time not surprised. That's what parents do.

This loving gesture that He showed me on Sunday is different, though. It's the parenting that goes beyond meeting basic physical needs. It's the parent spending time with His child. I need the same from Him that my children need from me: time, fellowship, loving gestures, the little things that build bonds and memories. This is what He does for me: He shows me His glory, His sovereignty, and His grace in little ways that take my breath away and allow me to soak up His love.

I am grateful in a fall-to-my-knees-and-face kind of way: so grateful that He chose me, that He loves me, that He removed the veil from my eyes so that I can experience Him.

I am my beloved's and He is mine.

I've been bored with my normal recipes, much to the dismay of my quite unadventurous family, so I've been playing around with some new recipes.

Last night, I tried a new lasagna recipe, modified a bit, and the result was yum! Seconds for everyone in the house means I'll be adding this to the monthly rotation. It makes quite a lot of meat sauce, which is nice because I can use that later for another dish. I'm still considering doubling it and freezing half next time, just because it is so time-consuming.

Quiet Table Lasagna















Ingredients:
3/4 lb hot Italian sausage
1 lb lean ground beef
1 medium onion, minced
minced garlic, to taste (I probably used 3 or 4 cloves worth)
1 (28 oz) can crushed tomatoes
1 (12 oz) can tomato paste
1 (15 oz) can tomato sauce
1/2 cup water
2 Tbsp. granulated sugar
2 tsp. dried basil
1/2 tsp. fennel seeds
1 tsp. Italian seasoning
1/2 Tbsp. salt
1/2 tsp. ground black pepper
1/4 cup fresh parsley, chopped
1 box no-boil lasagna noodles
15 oz. ricotta cheese
1 egg
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 (6 oz) packages sliced mozzarella cheese
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese

Directions:
Brown sausage, ground beef, onion and garlic in Dutch oven. Add next 10 ingredients, and simmer over low heat (covered) for two hours.

When meat sauce is ready, combine ricotta cheese, egg, parsley, and 1/2 tsp salt in a small bowl.

To assemble, spread 2 cups of meat sauce in bottom of 9x13 pan. Arrange noodles, slightly overlapping, to cover the bottom of the pan. Spread 1/2 of the ricotta cheese mixture over noodles, then top with 1 package of mozzarella slices. Spoon another 2 cups of meat sauce over the cheese, and repeat layers, ending with an additional 2 cups of meat sauce. Sprinkle Parmesan cheese over final layer of meat sauce, then top with the last package of sliced mozzarella.

Cover with sprayed foil and bake at 375 degrees for 25 minutes. Remove foil and bake for an additional 25 minutes. Allow to cool 10-15 minutes before serving.

Do everything without grumbling or arguing.
- Phililppians 2:14

This is one of the first verses I taught BooBoo, and I love to remind her of it. Frequently.

The thing about scripture verses is they have a funny way of popping up over and over and over again, to the point that it is statistically impossible for a person to be bombarded by the same small set of words with such intensity.

It happens anyway.

This round started over the weekend with a song: the same song I used to teach BooBoo the verse. It's a lively, cheerful little ditty sung by children. It's so annoying.

Just like any undesired tune that gets stuck in my head, it went 'round and 'round, looping incessantly and resulting in numerous attempts on my part to evict it.

But it wouldn't go away.

Then my husband said it. I can't even remember what the context was; all I could do was briefly recognize the words before that familiar feeling crept into my heart and mind. The feeling that implies, "Pay attention. I'm about to teach you something."

As usual, I quickly dismissed it (because I require God to hit me over the head with a sledgehammer).

Fast forward to Sunday morning: DH and I are sitting in church; we've just finished worship, and our Pastor steps up and proceeds to read Philippians 2:14-16.

Honestly, I didn't even hear verses 15 and 16. I was too paranoid about why this verse was in front of me yet again. I managed to focus on the rest of the sermon and chewed on it for the rest of the day, trying to understand what I wasn't seeing that God so clearly wanted me to see.

I just didn't get it. I felt like I had been doing a pretty decent job of not complaining, grumbling, or even arguing. I'm not perfect, but I've been getting better about holding my tongue. So what was He going for here?

At some point in the middle of the night, my brain must have finally opened itself to the truth, because when I woke, I was filled with a gentle awareness of the presented lesson.

It's not enough to hold my grumbling tongue; I also have to hold my grumbling thoughts. Grumbling thoughts steal my joy, and if I don't have joy, how can I let my light shine? How can I live life large?

I'd like to say that I smiled and basked in the glow of this beautiful truth, but I didn't. Nope, I panicked. I've been around this block enough times to know that next follows a series of "opportunities" to exercise my new found epiphany.

My first chance today (at least that I've recognized) occurred during a routine diaper change. I vaulted Truck onto the changing table and reached into the diaper stacker. Empty. Just to the other side of the table lay an open box of diapers, waiting to be transferred to their rightful place.

My usual thought in this situation goes something like, "Why do I always have to be the one to put them away?"

I caught myself about halfway through that thought. I took it captive, exhaled it out, and breathed in the Spirit. In that instant, it was okay to be lowly and do such a menial task.

I smiled and in that instant, I realized BooBoo had appeared at my side.

"Mommy, I would love to put away the diapers for you."

A lump developed in my throat, and I fought back tears that are still filling my eyes as I write this. I hadn't said a word, yet here was my 5-year-old daughter, eager and happy to serve me.

I've got a lot to learn from that girl.

Be prepared.

That's generally a good motto for any parent. Know your child, and be prepared.

For example, I know that my 2-year-old son is a neat freak when it comes to his hands and face. He absolutely cannot tolerate any stray food on his body, not even for a second. The sensation of foreign matter instantly sends him into a frenzy of screeching, "Nat-keens! Nat-keens!" (Napkin, but he really means a baby wipe.)

I should have remembered this last Sunday. What started as a family outing to GattiTown to celebrate the second anniversary of three of our baptisms, ended in one horrific moment of parental embarrassment.

We ate pizza, we played, and when we were all completely tuckered out, we decided to go for one last round of dessert before heading home.

Truck was eyeing BooBoo's chocolate pudding with interest, so I asked him if he would like some. "Puh-ing?" he gurgled happily in response.

Feeling happy and proud that my boy had successfully identified a member of his favorite food group, I gladly dished some up and began spooning it into his mouth.

"Mmmmmmmm."

Yay! He likes it! Pudding has calcium, right?

That's when it happened: right as I was feeding him another bite, he turned his head, distracted by the wall-sized TV screen playing one of those cartoon movies I never actually get to watch the whole way through. The pudding blobbed onto his cheek.

"Ugh," he said in disgust.

I giggled.

Big. Mistake.

There are many things I should have done, like tell him it was okay, tell him I'm getting a wipe, get the stinking wipe, and wipe it off his mouth. I should have had a wipe at the ready, for crying out loud!

But I didn't. I giggled.

In an instant he realized that not only had I failed to conjure a wipe, but I also was mocking him.

He slid off his chair, got on his hands and knees on the sticky, nasty floor, threw me a contemptuous look, and wiped his face on the floor.

Yup, score one point for me towards the Mother of the Year trophy.

My husband and I were both on our feet, jaws dropped, faces red, struggling to reach him through the jello-thick, slow-motion inducing air that always seems to appear at the worst possible time.

All we could do is laugh and detoxify him. Luckily, everyone around us laughed, too, and in that moment, I realized this was something we would be sharing with him when he has his own children someday.

I might break it out a little sooner, though. Like when he's a teenager and says that I'm embarrassing him.

Truck's relatively recent mobility has been such a blessing! He is starting to explore, and he is finally showing some interest in just a little independence.

For months, he would only butt-scoot across the floor. His pediatrician insisted that this fit the definition for crawling, but I was ready to really see him move! He made the transition to crawling backwards on all fours, and then one day, he started crawling forward.

It did not take much time for him to become a very fast crawler. Truck zips around the house with a big smile on his face, singing his "Here I come!" song. It is so sweet to see, and I know I will mourn the passing of this time when it is gone.

Unfortunately, to BooBoo's dismay, Truck's mobility has led to the invasion of her space. Gone are the days when Boo would walk up to Truck and say, "Awww, Truck, you're such a good baby!" Those sweet sentiments have been replaced with, "No, Truck! That's mine!"



Of course, we have conversations about sharing, and BooBoo is generally good about sharing her toys. However, she draws the line when it comes to sharing her breakfast.

BooBoo has very specific expectations for her mornings: She comes downstairs and immediately requires a sippy cup of milk, one of juice, and a strawberry pop-tart. Not the healthiest of breakfasts, I know, but I figure it's kind of like the two cups of coffee I need to consume each morning. Additionally, she usually doesn't eat much of the pop-tart because she gets full eating whatever breakfast the rest of the family is eating. Given all of this, I choose to not make this particular vice into a battle.

Each morning, these are set out on the ottoman for BooBoo, and she leisurely drinks and eats as she watches the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. She tends to transfer these cups and her bowl with the pop-tart to the floor, which has never been a problem, until now.

Truck loves food. He especially loves sweet food, which he gets from his father and both his grandmothers, but definitely not from me. One day, he saw BooBoo eating her pop-tart, and it was almost as if I could read his mind: "Hmmm, sister has food. Sister put food down. Truck needs food."

In an instant, Truck was darting across the living room floor, and before BooBoo even knew he was near, he had swiped the pop-tart and taken a bite! BooBoo was in tears at having her morning routine so greatly disturbed, but Truck was not to be deterred. As I tended to BooBoo's wounded heart, Truck swiped it again!



Needless to say, BooBoo and I had to designate a new safe place for her cups and bowl. She has become pretty good at remembering to keep her goodies there, but occassionally, as I pack lunches in the morning, I hear a resounding, "Truck-y, no swiping. Truck-y, no swiping. Truck-y, NO SWIPING!!